The Importance of Fruits

I love an early morning walk in the country with my dog because the air is fresh and silent to the exception of birds twittering. However, someone was shattering the natural tranquility of one morning when shouting: ‘You with the dog, excuse me. Hello!’ I looked around to see an elderly woman waving to me […]

I love an early morning walk in the country with my dog because the air is fresh and silent to the exception of birds twittering. However, someone was shattering the natural tranquility of one morning when shouting: ‘You with the dog, excuse me. Hello!’ I looked around to see an elderly woman waving to me from the porch of a pale yellow house. I had walked past this house many times without seeing anyone, so to have someone calling was startling.

I continued walking, and she continued shouting as I debated acknowledging her request: ‘Come up here. I want to talk to you.’ Well, I looked to the prospect of a closer encounter while realizing that ‘up here’ meant a flight of steps up a hill, and a second steeper flight to reach the porch. Also, given the tone of her request being stern, I feared a sermon if I ascended the mount. One might even imagine, from my words, that I feared something unrealized; still, I went up with the dog leading me.

Upon arriving at the peak, she demanded that I sit in a wooden chair as she lowered her crooked form to a rocker. Resting her pointed elbow upon its weatherworn arm, she leaned towards me while rubbing her thumb, and knobby index finger together: she looked into my eyes and asked tersely: ‘Why did you deliver that mail yesterday?’

She was speaking of misdelivered mail that I had taken to a neighbor farmer. It was an inconvenience that I didn’t want to bother with, yet I attached the lead to the dog, and off we went. Well, it didn’t go very well as I was ignored from someone standing behind a shuddering sheer of lace.

Anyway, I stated the obvious: ‘It wasn’t mine.’ She responded: ‘You’re different. Most people wouldn’t have bothered,’ she continued; ‘most people look at us believing that they are better than we are. We don’t speak to people like that.’

I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing, and she rose abruptly propelling the rocker to striking the wall of the house as its runners rumbled repetitively over the planks of the wooden floor. And once steadying herself, she turned asking to take the dog’s lead before telling me to follow her.

I was uncertain of all of it, yet I did as requested, and we crossed the porch to a screen door: she opened it and led me through and into a dark hallway before walking across her kitchen to another door where she flipped the light’s switch at its side before opening the door while ordering: ‘Go down there, and get some jam.’

With a pot of jam resting upon my doorstep that morning, I contemplated the importance of the fruity concoction to distract my quivering mind from the hole that I was looking into. And once acknowledging me standing firm, she provided the nudge that launched me into the cold and musty air, so I descended the steps hoping that this was not to be my grave.

Once landing upon the soft soil floor, my eyes traveled over the rows of metal shelves before me: they were laden with countless jars of jam aligned with measured precision and dusted with an even layer of beige filth. I stepped to the first shelf swiping my finger through the dingy film concealing a label’s text; my eyes widened, and my finger panicked swiping several labels exposing dates spanning the years. Instantly, I realized that I was standing before the National Archive’s collection of jam, so I studied the labels’ contents with the concentration of a curator to select a jar with an ingestible date; then, I returned to the stairs and looked up to see the elderly woman bending at the waist with one hand gripping the door’s frame: fearing her collapse, I ascended the steps hurriedly.

Once reaching the top, I proclaimed: ‘You have a lot of jam!’ She told me, in a jubilant tone, that making it is a ‘hobby.’ With that, thoughts of winter flurried from my lips, and drifted into the glow of her enthusiasm where they melted as she recalled grocery store fruits, and numerous other endeavors that helped to pass the long days.

Slowly, we made our way to the porch where I thanked her before leaving. And when arriving home, I was appreciative; still, I discarded the jam from fear for my life.